


One Pure Thought

by lightningwaltz



Category: Messiah Project - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Weirdly domestic breathplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2015-11-09
Packaged: 2018-04-30 18:40:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5175281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightningwaltz/pseuds/lightningwaltz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Then there was the day when Misu left for an hour or two, and came back with a haircut. The scent of dye lingered in the air, like gasoline or cigarette smoke, and Amane went for a walk to avoid it.  </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Pure Thought

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Abyssia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abyssia/gifts).



> Early birthday present for Abyssia. Ermmmm, enjoy.

A few months into the job, and Section Four's veneer of respectability towed Amane along like it was quicksand. It crawled up his body, moment by moment, dragging him down. He was sure he was always panting, and everyone was too polite to point it out.

Respectability demanded schedules where he and Misu slept and woke at the same hours. It demanded that he clock in and clock out. It was stitched into the cloudy, starchy gray uniforms that remained unwrinkled until, suddenly, they weren’t. Whenever that happened, Misu would shrug, heat up the iron, and get down to work. He’d have Amane’s coat on the board before Amane realized what was happening. He’d watch Misu’s hands as he worked, and he would wonder how he had never ended up learning how to do this task. He had once asked Misu to teach him, but had gotten a non-committal reply in response. Something about how Amane wouldn’t like being burned. 

Respectability also meant they had a regular salary. Misu mostly handled their combined money, usually transforming their currency into food. Which, more often than not, he was the one to cook. This meant that Misu managed another transforming act, this time transmuting mere food to something as homey as _dinner_. 

Sometimes, though, Misu purchased frivolous things like songs for his own phone, and Amane thought they all sounded terrible. Inexplicably, he sometimes bought magnetic stickers for their fridge. One time, he even came home with a pair of brightly colored oven mitts, and Amane wondered if they amused Misu. 

Then there was the day when Misu left for an hour or two, and came back with a haircut. The scent of dye lingered in the air, like gasoline or cigarette smoke, and Amane went for a walk to avoid it. 

He didn’t say anything about it that particular afternoon. In (what was, in his opinion) a stunning display of endurance, he didn’t mention it at work. It took a full twenty-seven hours- Amane counted them- until the observation burst out of him. 

Maybe it was because he had a knife in his hands, and that lent him a sense of security. Never mind that it was a kitchen knife, and he was just chopping up vegetables for their dinner (Misu often insisted on having a dreadfully bland, yet healthy component to their meals.) 

“Your hair.” Amane stopped. In some ways, that was a single thought. “It’s _different_.” 

Misu finished closing the oven door before he stood up, and looked at Amane in a _wow, I had no idea_ sort of way. “Not very different.” 

“It’s a bit lighter.” _I’m not stupid_. 

Misu ran his fingers through his own hair, like color could be felt. “Only a little.” 

“Also you had someone else cut it.” Amane gestured with his knife, without really realizing it. He placed it down on the counter after Misu raised an eyebrow. “You always cut your own hair before.” 

“Yeah, but … that was before.” 

Amane didn’t understand why Misu had that asymmetrical hairstyle in the first place. He didn’t understand why Misu had to go and change _everything_ by small increments. Sure, some changes had been good, but neither of them were prophets. It was impossible to predict all the bad things that might ensue. 

“Okay, but aren’t haircuts expensive?” Amane wishes he was still holding the knife, after all. He feels like that spider web fracture that had appeared in the windshield of Misu’s car. It had been small in the beginning, but the more they drove, the more the cracks had spread from that epicenter. A bit of entropy trapped in a plane of glass “Also, we always combine our money. How much of my money did you use to look all fashionable and-”

Misu’s hand covers Amane’s mouth. He smells like gunpowder and stacks of paper. But he also smells like the spices he always uses in his cooking. There’s no brutality in it; he’s barely touching Amane. Somehow that’s the most arresting thing of all. 

“Amane, things are fine. Okay?” There’s no yelling. No angry whispering, either. No violence at all.

_Why was I ever afraid of you?_

This realization inspires new fears of his own. Or, rather, old fears given form.

A pause. He wishes they had one of those clocks that ticks away the seconds. Instead, they just have a digital watch on their microwave. He wants to measure just how long Misu is willing to touch him, and his heart is pounding too much for Amane to count reliably. 

He nods, and Misu starts to pull back. 

_No._

Amane grabs onto Misu’s hand, and puts it right back where it had been. He moves it up just enough so that his nose is covered too. The lack of oxygen is as instantaneous as a decapitation. And it reminds Amane that there are so many parts of his body that aren’t connected to his addled brain. Parts of his body that diligently perform their one task; to survive and survive, no matter the state of his soul. 

This could kill him. The clearness of this realization takes all his disparate trains of thought and braids them together. It pares away everything that is useless, unwanted, harmful. He is suffocating, and he can finally breathe. 

Misu jerks away, and inhales like a kid resurfacing after touching the deep end of a pool. He clutches his own hair, and wonders what his smile must look like. Because he is definitely smiling. It hurts his cheeks more than his lungs ache right now. 

“Seems like you needed that.” The emotion in Misu’s face is impossible to name, but that’s often the case. 

“Hmmm.” Amane won’t commit to any particular answer, but he thinks he hears Misu sigh in relief. 

He returns to chopping vegetables, noticing that his bangs keep drifting into his eyes. Maybe he should get his hair cut, too.

**Author's Note:**

> I can't remember if they lived together at this point in time in canon, but if they did I can imagine things like this happening, haha.


End file.
